


your angel, aziraphale

by angelheartbeat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Footnotes, Humor, Invasion of Privacy, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelheartbeat/pseuds/angelheartbeat
Summary: Being an angel of human leanings, Aziraphale has always been a fan of writing letters. Crowley discovers this on a sunny afternoon in the bookshop, when a stack of letters soaked in love is left for roaming demon eyes to spot.





	your angel, aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starryeyedhomicide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyedhomicide/gifts).



> idea creds to connor... lov u 
> 
> i sold my soul to code these footnotes in ive never done it before and i hated it
> 
> never has my username fit a fandom more perfectly than good omens.. its like it was meant to be

Being an angel of human leanings, Aziraphale has always been a fan of writing letters. He'd always considered them sweet and thoughtful, and had been entirely put out by the invention of the telephone, and later - to his disgust - e-mail. Crowley wasn't sure if he'd ever been exposed to texting, but for the sake of Aziraphale's temper and sanity had decided to never mention it.

Considering how appreciative Aziraphale was of a lot of advances in human invention[1], it had always seemed odd how protective he was of the art of letter-writing. Crowley chalked it up to loving books too much and ignored it.

Evidently, he shouldn't have ignored it. But really he should have known that from the start, because nothing Aziraphale does is without reason or charm, and he's a fool for not paying closer attention.

"Shall I make us some tea?" Aziraphale asks, and the exposition is cut short.

Crowley turns his head lazily, eyes unfocused behind his sunglasses. He's lounging across Aziraphale's ancient sofa, basking in what little sunlight he can soak up[2]. Being, in essence, a snake (and as such, cold blooded) has its drawbacks - most notably, a constant and unavoidable desire to be in whatever warmth is available to him. Aziraphale on the other hand, being an angel, runs hot. That information is irrelevant to the story at hand, but it is nice when you remember that their hand holding would always be at the optimum temperature.

"Go on, then," Crowley replies, although he'd much rather be moving on to the rather nice bottle of wine he knows Aziraphale has. He knows he has it, because Crowley was the one who bought it - some gift for something or other, or perhaps no reason at all. It's worth giving up on the wine, though, because as soon as Crowley replies in the affirmative Aziraphale's face gains this extraordinary softness, and he hurries up from his seat, out of the room.

There's a few moments of comfortable silence, until a quiet "Bugger!" rings out, and Crowley raises a single eyebrow in perfectly photogenic curiosity. Aziraphale appears in the doorway once again.

"I've run out of tea," he admits, sounding wounded, and Crowley has to hold back a smile. Aziraphale, of all people, running out of hot beverages.

"My, it'd take a miracle to fix that," Crowley replies drily, lips flirting with the idea of smirking but not quite making it there. Aziraphale gives him a disappointed frown.

"I want to do this properly," he says, and Crowley doesn't have a chance to ask what _this_ is. "No miracles."

And Crowley doesn't argue, because Aziraphale is an odd creature, and he's long since learnt to accept his little quirks and specificities. It doesn't take long for the latter's face to light up, anyhow.

"Oh, you won't mind if I just pop to the shops, will you?" he asks, and if Crowley was more transparent then the angel would have known the snake never minded anything he did. As it is, his lips finally reach peace with the idea of smirking, and he shakes his head.

"Excellent. Right. Well. I shall be right back, then!"

With that, Aziraphale trades his soft cardigan for his favourite coat, and leaves with little more than a soft smile in Crowley's direction. It speaks wonders about their relationship, really - that being, of course, that an angel's total trust in leaving a demon alone in his most treasured personal sanctuary would be unheard of for any supernatural entities besides these two. It makes Crowley's heart flutter that Aziraphale truly does trust him.

And so, Crowley is left alone to gaze idly around. He knows the bookshop quite well by now, he thinks, having spent the better part of the last few hundred years lounging amidst the piles of books in a particularly devil-may-care fashion. Every now and then, new stacks will replace old ones, and on occasion a book will even be sold.[3] Generally, though, the bookshop remains unchanged.

Which is why the sight of a new stack of papers neatly tied together with string on Aziraphale's desk isn't exactly odd, but is certainly a change worth noting. Especially as next to it is a fresh sheet of paper - although, with Aziraphale's outdated tendencies, the noun parchment seemed to fit him more cleanly - and a quill, for someone's sake, still glistening with fresh ink.

In Crowley's defense, curiosity itself isn't exactly a sin. Nosiness isn't quite mentioned in the Seven Deadly ones, but he's pretty sure it's frowned upon. And peering in on your mortal-enemy-turned-best-friend-turned-secret-crush's private writings is a little too specific to be in any Bible verses, but he's definitely sure that it'd have been a no-no if She'd thought of it. But, whatever. He Fell a long time ago, and the only thing that plucks at his conscience now is the idea of Aziraphale's disappointment if he snoops.

But he can tell from here that the papers are covered top to bottom in Aziraphale's illegibly spidery scrawl, and he's never been one to deny himself too much of a good thing. Besides, Aziraphale never has to find out he looked. He looks at other bits of paper and books in the bookshop all the time, anyway, and they're never interesting.

Justified in his decision, Crowley stretches out, hooks a finger round the string tie, and pulls the stack into his lap. The moment his eyes hit the first page he has regrets, because its a letter. And not just any letter. A letter that begins with an earnest _My dearest love_ and oozes with affection. If Crowley could sense love like Aziraphale could, he's pretty sure these letters would be dripping with it. Because they are all letters, when he flicks through them, all of them addressed to a nameless lover.

So curiosity might not be a sin, but its certainly not a good thing when it forces Crowley to keep reading, even as his stomach twists for unknown reasons.[4]

 _My dearest love,_ it begins, as previously mentioned.

_It's been a few years since I last put pen to paper about my thoughts, but don't fret - I've spent them with you on my mind. How could I not? I wish I could tell you I loved you, I truly do, but I'm sure you understand the feeling of being unable to express your thoughts. I don't blame you - I spend my days wishing we could be free from all this, free to be together, to love one another-_

Then Crowley has to stop reading, because his throat has turned uncomfortably tight and there's a prickling behind his eyes. Aziraphale is in love. Aziraphale is in love with someone, and its not bloody him, is it - he's never been that lucky, never made the right choices to let himself have any kind of happiness. Aziraphale, the angel, _his_ angel, _his Aziraphale_ is in love.

Of course he's in love. He's Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who wears fashion decades after it went out of style. Aziraphale, who would sooner chop off his own wings than give up a book. Aziraphale, who drinks cocoa with marshmallows and thinks Crowley goes too fast for him and ties his private writings together with string. Aziraphale, who's an angel. Who's ineffable. Who's so full of love it had to go somewhere, had to burst and reach someone with such intensity that he spends his time wishing he could be with them. Of course he's in love.

Crowley feels like an idiot for not noticing it sooner. If he'd noticed it sooner, maybe he could have beat back his feelings more effectively than he has been already (namely, not very), and maybe all the remnants of when he was holy and had love in his veins could be quashed under a thick veil of denial and possibly alcohol.

Any rational person would put down the letters and begin work on erasing any romantic feelings posthaste, but Crowley is by all accounts not especially rational. Some would say he's a glutton for punishment. That would be an accurate description, too, given how he begins to flick through the pages just long enough to catch glimpses of terrible handwriting that makes everything inside of him want to explode.

_I haven't seen you in a while, my love, and I miss your smile. Goodness, I hope I see you soon._

_Sometimes, you know, I truly do consider leaving everything behind to be with you. I wish you'd realise that, darling._

_How long until you realise I love you?_

_It's far too hard to express my feelings sometimes, my dear._

_I think we should spend some time apart, darling. You make it too hard to concentrate._

_I love you._

And, at the end of all of them, without fail. _Love, your angel, Aziraphale._

Crowley feels like even more of an idiot then, as he stretches out to replace the stack of letters where he found it and mull over his new discoveries. As a rule, he doesn't like to think of himself as an especially jealous demon, even if Envy is one of the big ones he's meant to support. He is, of course, because the vast majority of the time when someone would like to believe they aren't something, they will turn out to be that thing. This is because the world is a nightmare, and God has an awfully wicked sense of humour, for a divine and holy being. A more specific statement, though, would be that Crowley is mostly jealous in regards to Aziraphale's affection. He is not jealous, for example, of someone having nicer houseplants than him[5], or maybe a nicer pair of sunglasses. But the idea of someone else receiving the full force of his angel's love? That makes him feel feelings he'd really rather not.

Well. If being a supernatural entity in places that supernatural entities really shouldn't be has taught him anything, its how to act nonchalant. So that is what he'll do, he decides. Once Aziraphale comes back, he'll act like nothing has changed. He'll pretend that he doesn't know about Aziraphale's lover, and they'll drink tea and reminisce on six thousand years.

Six thousand years, and Aziraphale has the gall to go off and date someone else!

Now he really wishes he had that wine. Aziraphale is taking an especially long time.

Aziraphale is taking a long time because he has been caught up in conversation with the cashier at the newsagent for more than a few minutes. Her name is Wilma, and she has a dog at home named Pickle. Wilma will go home to Pickle unaware that she had a brief talk with an angel at work today, and tonight she will have a rather pleasant dream about the thing she likes best, which happens to be detective stories and solving mysteries. Aziraphale tends to have that effect on people. Not the mysteries. The pleasant dreams. Although he is rather mysterious, when he chooses to be.

He is hurrying home, unaware that his privacy has, to not beat around the bush, been thoroughly intruded upon by his demon companion. His mind is more preoccupied with making sure everything regarding this particular meeting goes smoothly. There are reasons for this, which I'm sure the more discerning of you will have pieced together long before now, but let's let the two of them follow their own narrative, shall we? It'd be awfully rude to skip to the end.

The sky is dithering over whether or not to rain, and it finally gives in and starts to drizzle just as Aziraphale reaches the door of his bookshop.

"I'm back, Crowley!" he calls out, clutching his newly-purchased box of tea close to him. There's a quiet grunt of assent from the back room, which Aziraphale takes to mean _welcome back, I missed you, and have not meddled with your books in any way while you've left me alone here._ Some might think that would make Crowley sound awfully suspicious, but they underestimate the sheer amount of trust Aziraphale has begun to place in the other over the years.

Given that we're relatively omniscient here, we know that Crowley's grunt of course meant something closer to _hey, what the fuck? What the fuck? You're in love? And not with me? What the fuck? Whatever. I'm unbothered by this._ [6]

Regardless of what the grunt really meant, Aziraphale flicks on the kettle and distributes the tea into mugs - white with angel wings for him, black with a devil tail for Crowley, because the two of them are nothing if not cheesily predictable. He takes a deep breath. Having a kettle in the bookshop was Crowley's idea, which he'd resisted heavily at first, and eventually only gave in when the kettle was placed strategically in a far corner, where no books were to be found and possibly damaged. But he has to admit, its rather convenient when hes trying to focus, and would really prefer to not wander all the way upstairs to his little flat. Hes trying to use less miracles, too, which just complicates the whole matter.

Either way, the kettle whistles merrily, and from the back room Crowley takes in a sharp breath at the same high-pitched frequency. Act nonchalant.

Roughly a minute and forty-three seconds later, Aziraphale is bringing two mugs of tea into the back room, beaming. "So sorry I had to leave you alone," he says, sounding genuinely apologetic, and Crowley feels a little burst of guilt about what he got up to while Aziraphale was out.

"Cheers," he replies, taking the tea and trying not to glance shiftily at the letters on Aziraphale's desk. Although, really, it wouldn't matter much, because his eyes are as shielded as ever by his sunglasses.

"So," Aziraphale begins, and then Crowley can't help himself.

"Who are you in love with?

Ah, fuck. So much for being nonchalant. Although we all saw this coming, didn't we?

Aziraphale blinks and swallows, taking his mug away from his lips and staring at Crowley. "What?" he asks softly, with the tiniest tremble in his voice, and Crowley feels even more guilt hit him like a ton of bricks. Well, he's in this shit now. Can't back out. His foot is firmly and entirely inside of his mouth.

"I found these," he admits, reaching over and grabbing the stack. One of Aziraphale's hands flies to his mouth, his face an indistinct blend of feelings. There's definitely anger in there, though, as his brows draw together.

"You read my _letters_?" he hisses, and if Crowley didn't feel so bad he'd jokingly call Aziraphale out for stealing his snake traits. As it is, he can only avoid his gaze and nod awkwardly. Wow, he hates feeling guilty. Being a good person sucks. "Crowley! How could you!"

"You're avoiding the question," Crowley deflects weakly, and all of the anger seeps from Aziraphale's expression. He doesn't doubt that the angel is still furious, and he's gonna have to do some serious groveling later to make up for this - that is if Aziraphale doesn't abandon him forever - but there's more softness in his eyes now. "Who are you in love with?"

Aziraphale pauses. "You... _did_ read the letters, right?"

"Only.. bits. So who? Sandalphon? Michael?" Crowley makes a disgusted face, recoiling a little. " _Gabriel?_ "

Aziraphale snorts. "Heavens no! Pardon my language, but Gabriel is rather a twat."

"Angel, that's hardly cursing. But alright, fine, if it isn't Gabriel, then who?"

Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. Its a very common look for Aziraphale to give Crowley. Its a look that says in every inch of it _you are either being very annoying or very stupid, but there's something very charming about it so I can't be especially mad, much as I'd like to be._

"It's _you_ , Crowley."

Crowley swallows thickly. Aziraphale is gazing at him with a softer expression than he could ever imagine, and every inch of his body is suddenly heavy like iron and walking on air at the same time. His tongue feels altogether too large, but he manages to choke out a panicked "What?"

"It's you, Crowley. It's always been you."

If you were curious, Aziraphale feels roughly the same as Crowley, with an additional sprinkling of angelic guilt still lingering from the mindset of demons being his enemy. Crowley doesn't have this, partly because he gave up giving a fuck about Hell a fairly long time ago, and partly because he always was a fairly rebellious spirit.

There's awkward silence for a couple of seconds, so thick you could spread it on toast if you so desired[7].

Then Crowley makes a noise like a strangled housecat, and launches himself across the sofa to press his lips to Aziraphale's. It's utterly inelegant - their noses bump, and their teeth clack together rather painfully - but he can feel Aziraphale smiling against his lips as he wraps himself around him like a snake around a tree. As first kisses go (well, first kisses with the love of your life. Crowley isn't going to pretend like he hasn't fooled around here and there, and Aziraphale certainly had a brief Something-Or-Other with Oscar Wilde) it's messy, sudden, relatively unromantic and just a little bit desperate, but it's perfect regardless.

When Aziraphale pulls back, his hair is ruffled and his cheeks are flushed, but he's chuckling as he gazes up into Crowley's e- well. Sunglasses. _Those have to go,_ he thinks, reaching up and tugging them off of Crowley's face. He's confronted with Crowley's eyes glowing ever so slightly, just as loving and slightly manic as Aziraphale's.

"Why did you never send the letters?" he asks, suddenly curious.

"I was scared," Aziraphale sighs. "Scared of Heaven finding out, scared you wouldn't feel the same. They were a form of therapy, I suppose. A way to get my feelings out without having to show them to anyone. I'm sure I'd have shown them to you eventually. I was certainly going to show you the most recent one. Today, in fact."

"Oh?" Crowley's voice is carefully measured, trying not to betray the anguish he's feeling over Aziraphale struggling with his feelings alone for so long. He himself had become used to it a long time ago - he's a demon after all, his existence should be painful - but the idea of his angel suffering makes his blood boil.

"If I'm honest," he mumbles, and Crowley raises his eyebrows. "That's how I was planning to tell you. Today. That's why I didn't want to use any miracles. I wanted it to be more... human." He moves a hand up to cup Crowley's face, and the latter thinks he could just melt.

"You're killing me here, angel," he all but growls, diving back into the kiss like he's drowning and Aziraphale's lips are a much-needed breath of air. It only takes a moment before Aziraphale pulls back again.

"I'm still mad at you for reading my letters without permission," he tells Crowley firmly, and Crowley nods. "You're going to have to make it up to me."

Crowley sticks his forked tongue out flirtily, raising his eyebrows. "How's a bit more kissing sound?"

Flustered, Aziraphale nods. "Well. Yes. That'll suit me nicely."

Picture us panning away from the newly-confessed lovers - they're busy kissing, anyway, and we don't want to be rude and overstay our welcome - towards the one letter that had been separate from the stack. Nosiness isn't quite a sin, as Crowley established earlier, so why not take a quick peek?

_My dearest,_

_If you're reading this, that almost certainly means I've either told you I love you, I'm about to, or you've been quite rude and snooped in my personal affairs._

_Either way, I think I need to tell you I love you. I've spent rather too long avoiding it, when that's unfair to us both. We're on our side, my dear. No more avoiding my feelings for you. I only pray you feel the same._

_I love you, Crowley._

_Much love,_

_Your angel, Aziraphale._

* * *

 

1Besides, of course, the ones which gave strength to one of the Four Horsemen; which, considering the sorry state of humanity, was most of them. Aziraphale was always pleasantly surprised when inventions like the chocolate chip cookie came around.[return to text]

2Aziraphale was a firm believer that too much sunlight was bad for the books, a fact which Crowley very much disliked due to the lack of truly warm spots in the bookshop.[return to text]

3Much to Aziraphale's chagrin, of course. Sometimes, even his best efforts weren't enough to ward away the people truly committed to buying old books.[return to text]

4Very well known reasons, actually. Both to Crowley, although he didn't like to admit it, and to you and I, because lets face it, we both know how this story is going to end.[return to text]

5Partly because that simply isn't possible.[return to text]

6He is bothered, obviously, but you didn't need me to tell you that.[return to text]

7Awkward silence is actually a very popular spread in Hell. Goes well on bagels.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> if you know what i was referencing with the cashier i love u forever
> 
> writing this fic took,, a while actually i read the entirety of the good omens book in between writing it and subsequently my writing style is aaall over the place
> 
> the ending of this is,, ehhh??? but yknow it'll do and its been a while since i started this fic so at this point i just want to be done w it yknow
> 
> hope u enjoyed! my tumblr is @thoriffix come say hi! also leave a comment or i will come down on u like the gust of a thousand winds


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